


Instinctual

by hyenateeth



Series: Gilding [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assault, F/F, Genderswap, Grantaire refuses to talk about feelings, Implied Past Child Abuse, Minor Violence, for like a second if you squint, unsuccessful assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyenateeth/pseuds/hyenateeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, Enjolras would come with fire in her eyes, talking about broad concepts, talking about <i>misogyny</i> and <i>rape culture</i> and <i>victim blaming</i> and a bunch of other things Grantaire didn’t want to hear about, not now, not when she had a man’s blood drying on her knuckles and his handprint aching onto her arm.</p>
<p>She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about what could have happened to her. She didn’t want to think about anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinctual

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings in the tags, plus warning for disordered eating.
> 
> A continuation in this series where things actually happen wow the novelty of it. And it's about twice as long as the previous installments.

Grantaire kept the cup. 

It was totally fucking stupid, but she kept the cup that Enjolras had given her that morning. The note too. 

She didn’t really _do_ anything with them. She just left them on the table next to her futon. 

It was stupid.

She felt a little bit like an annoying school girl, but she couldn’t really bring herself to throw it away. And she wasn’t that bad. She didn’t focus on it or anything, stare at it or smell it or whatever the fuck lovestruck people were supposed to do. It was just there, in between her ashtray and whatever book she happened to be reading at the time.

And it wasn’t like anything changed either. The next time she saw Enjolras, Grantaire very resolutely didn’t mention it, and no one else said anything, so Grantaire considered the matter officially dropped. 

They had other things to think about anyway. Enjolras was trying to get the paperwork set up to have some kind of booth set up on campus with information about... well, _something_ , Grantaire could not be expected to know everything Enjolras did, and Grantaire had class projects to do. 

She was in an unusually good mood for several weeks after the cup incident though, and she didn’t want to give Enjolras so much credit for her moods, but the knowledge that Enjolras cared even a little bit, even if it was human decency, made her feel good. 

So she ate somewhat regularly and slept well and still made fun of Enjolras’ booth plans, but she did not do so meanly, and Enjolras reacted with mild exasperation as opposed to anger. 

Of course, such things fluxed, and Grantaire did not notice that they were fluxing down, usually.

In the past it had felt sudden, like she was fine one day, and the next she had four major projects due for class but all she wanted to do was lay in bed and Jehan was wrenching a bottle out of her hands, snapping “Goddammit, Aurélie Grantaire, I told you _not until you’ve eaten something_!” and Grantaire is snapping back “Since when are you my fucking _babysitter_ Prouvaire?” and Jehan is running to Courfeyrac to complain about her roommate the lush, and they are moving in together and Grantaire is living alone.

(It, of course, did not happen that fast. It probably did not happen like that at all, but Grantaire’s memories were hazy with paranoia and self-loathing, so she tended to assume things.)

So a few weeks later, when she was frustrated with a painting, one that was supposed to be some kind of self portrait except always forgot how much she hated self portraits and her face ended up not being in it at all, she realized she hadn’t eaten. In a while.

It wasn’t like she did it on purpose. She didn’t want to lose weight, not really. And she enjoyed food. Sometimes. It was just...

She would not be hungry at all for a while. Or she would be but it went away the instant food was put in her mouth, and sometimes she felt so melancholy that no matter how much her stomach rumbled, the thought of food just displeased her irrationally, tasted bad when she forced it in her mouth.

Sometimes, on the other hand, she would wake up in the morning and be achingly, longingly hungry, and so after her first class she would drop by a little place and grab some breakfast.

She had felt like that a Tuesday and it ended the way it always did. She ate all of her meal and then felt sick, too full and too hungry at the same time, so she hadn’t eaten dinner that night and had only eaten handfuls peanuts the next day, absentmindedly during painting breaks. And she didn’t even realize how little it was until 2 in the morning on Thursday night and she was painting and suddenly realized how very incredibly hungry she was.

That was also when she realized that she had nothing in her apartment. Right. Of course. She had eaten her last can of soup last weekend hadn’t she? She had run out of real food a while before that. In her kitchenette she had peanuts, mustard, bread that had gone moldy, and a six-pack. Great. 

So she would go to the store tomorrow. Not that hard. She made a small list of things to pick up ( _cold cuts, cheese, soup, bread, maybe some fruit, nothing too expensive-_ ) and went back to painting, set to ignore her hunger.

Except she couldn’t. 

She was so hungry it hurt and her stomach grumbled, and all she could think about was how good _anything_ sounded, and the fact that her limbs were definitely kind of weak didn’t help. 

It was 2:37 when she slammed her paintbrush down, unable to take it anymore. 

It was a warm night, so she didn’t bother with a jacket over the old wifebeater she wore while painting, and just pulled on sandals. There was still paint smudging her hands and face, not to mention her clothes, but she didn’t care. There was a 24-hour cheap fast food place a few blocks away. No one there would care if she had zinc white on her nose or mars yellow on her cheek or cobalt green on her hands.

She had done this enough times for the walk to be familiar, almost relaxing. The streets were not empty, the streets were never empty, but they were quiet at least. She lived in a quieter area, blocks away from any nightclubs or busy streets that would cause the night to bustle.

There were more people in the fast food joint, insomniacs and drunks and late night partiers coming down from their highs, but it was not as bad as it was on the weekends. The university student who took her order was tired and disgruntled, but that was fine by Grantaire. She was there for food, not conversation. 

She thought about eating in. She was very hungry, it would be faster to eat in one of the ugly plastic booths. But, she decided, she would much rather eat in the privacy of her own shitty apartment. Curl up on her futon and watch some shitty late night television on her shitty five year old model, before getting back to painting. Or maybe sleeping.

It would make her feel better. She hadn’t really realized her had been feeling bad, but it would make her feel better.

So she took her bag of food in one hand and and her drink in the other and left. 

The night wasn’t that bad. She sipped at her soda as she walked leisurely. Maybe she had just been hungry. Maybe she would feel better, happy, after she ate.

“‘’Ey” called a voice, and Grantaire stopped. It was a man, older than her, by how much it was hard to tell in the low light, and he approached her. “You got any cash baby?”

Grantaire shook her head no and went back to walking. 

“Hey!” He was following her now. _Just ignore him, just ignore him, keep walking._ “What’s wrong? You got some place to be?” 

Grantaire did not look back. _Just ignore him-_

It all happened very fast. One moment she was walking, the next moment she was being grabbed, hard and painful by a large hand around her upper arm like a vice, spinning her around and shoving her against the wall of the nearest building.

Her bag hit the ground, food spilling out of it.

A scream started in her throat, but was caught by his other hand, clamping across her face, and she could smell him as she struggled, he smelled bad, like sweat and cheap booze and piss, and her trying to twist away from him was to no avail, he was only gripping her harder, and it hurt hurt _hurt,_ pain worsened by her fear. 

“Look you little-” he growled and Grantaire couldn’t hear him after that. She could only hear the blood rushing in her ears, and her own thoughts. 

_I’m going to die,_ was the the first, followed immediately by _No, no I’m not,_ and then she didn’t think anymore. 

She twisted again, on pure instinct now, and slammed the paper cup of soda that she was still gripping in her unhindered hand onto his head.

The man jerked back, shocked by the sudden rush of ice and cola, sputtering and confused and trying to blink soda out of his eyes, and let go of Grantaire’s face, and that was all she really needed, because he was holding on to her non-dominant arm. The next instant she was slamming her fist into his nose, and she could hear and feel the sickly crunch under her fist of it breaking. 

Finally he let go of her arm, giving a harsh cry as he staggered backwards and doubled over, clutching at his face. Grantaire rushed forward at him, blood still rushing in her ears, hunger-weak limbs now pumping with adrenaline, balling both her fists together and bringing them down together as hard as she could on the top of his head.

She heard him hit the ground, but she didn’t see it. She was already turning and running, her sandals falling off her feet in her scramble to get away. She let them go. She couldn’t run in them anyway.

And she ran. She ran and she didn’t stop and she didn’t think, she just kept running, bare feet hitting the pavement hard, breath coming painfully. To anyone she might have passed by ( _did she pass anyone? she wasn’t sure, she wasn’t paying attention_ ), she would have looked mad, barefoot and frantic. 

She didn’t stop running until she reached her apartment, didn’t start thinking until she was fumbling with her keys to get inside. 

That was about when the cursing started, flowing out of her mouth in a steady stream under her breath - _shitfuckfuckshitmotherfucker_ \- between heavy gasps for air. She stumbled inside, locked the door, and then found herself leaning heavy on the doorknob, unsure if she could support herself otherwise. She cursed for a few seconds more, trying to collect herself.

Shit.

_Shit._

She needed to calm down. Collect her thoughts. Get a drink. No, don’t do that.

God _damn_ she was hungry. 

She was dizzy and lightheaded, like that one time she had passed out, and all that running probably hadn’t helped. She just wanted food, _she had just wanted food._ Still wanted food. _Was he still out there?_

Her mind was a cloud, but she didn’t faint, and after she didn’t know how long of just standing there lost in a fog, she began to process her own sensations again.

Her chest and feet hurt, and her hands were shaking against the doorknob, making it rattle. She needed to do _something._ She couldn’t just stand there and let herself shake apart. What could she do?

She could call someone. That was right, she could call someone, they could bring her food. But who? Who would even be awake? It had to be close to three by now. 

Her phone was on the bedside table. She hadn’t thought she would need it, jesus- 

She forced herself to let go of the doorknob and stumble over to the phone, grabbing it and throwing herself onto the futon, still set up like a couch, slumping into it before she opened her contacts and began to scroll through them. Who could she call who could she-

Her thumb stuttered over the keyboard. She stared at the highlighted name for a moment, and then before she could think, pressed call. She regretted it immediately but was already pressing the phone to her ear; she was committed. 

(Enjolras would be awake anyway, right? She seemed like the type, sacrificing sleep to save the world, or at least her grades and-)

A click. “Hello?” Grantaire’s thoughts were abruptly cut off, and her stomach dropped. It was only one word, but Enjolras sounded annoyed. 

“I um. It’s me. I mean. Well, you probably have caller ID I don’t need to-”

“Why are you calling me Grantaire?”

Definitely annoyed, awake, but annoyed. She had never actually called Enjolras before, had she? Never called or texted and had her number more out of formality than anything. Words were failing her, and she felt finger-numbingly stupid for even making this call. “I... um, well-”

“Are you _drunk_ Grantaire?” The disdain in her voice was palpable and Grantaire couldn’t help but flinch. 

“No!” she said quickly, because it was true, though she was kind of wishing she were drunk. “It’s not, that’s not-”

“Why are you calling me then, at, christ, do you know what time it is?” 

It was hard to breath. She felt stupid and embarrassed and ashamed and why _had_ she called? 

“I um. Past 3?”

“What do you want Grantaire?”The words were getting caught in Grantaire’s throat, because this was Enjolras, Enjolras who disdained her.

“I just. I was going out to get food. Um. Th-there was a guy and he kind of um. Grabbed me.”

The mood on the other end of the phone changed on a dime. There was a sharp intake on the other line, a moment of silence, then a hiss of “ _What?_ ”

“It’s not a big deal! I’m fine, I just... I dropped my food and-”

“Are you hurt Grantaire?” The sharp tone of her voice made Grantaire flinch again, despite herself. 

“No! Well...”

“Oh my god-”

“It’s not- I’m fine Enjolras! I’m fine!”

“Grantaire you were attacked-”

“It’s not that bad!” Grantaire’s voice was pitching high, desperate with... well she wasn’t sure, but she was dizzy and her breath was short again and words were tumbling out of her mouth without any thought or control. “It wasn’t- He grabbed me and I got away and I ran b-but I lost my food. And my shoes. They were sandals; they were green and sparkly and had little ugly flowers and I bought them because they reminded me of Jehan. They were my favorite but I couldn’t run in them. And I’m. I’m hungry. That’s all Enjolras. I-I just want food.” 

(She was shaking again. Fuck.)

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Grantaire tried to distract herself by picturing Enjolras, ear pressed to the phone, but she could not read the silence, could not fathom what expression her lovely face would be making. Anger perhaps? 

Finally the silence was broken. 

“You want food?”

“Yeah. Just. I’m really hungry. Could you like. Bring me something?”

It is too much to ask, she knows it as she says it. God this was a stupid idea. “I mean. You don’t have to. I just thought you might be awake and... I don’t know. I’m sorry. I can just-”

“No!” Grantaire flinched at the tone again. “No, no it’s fine. You’re in your apartment right?”

“Well, yeah-”

“Give me 15 minutes.”

Another click and Grantaire was left holding the phone to her ear, confused. Enjolras was like a tornado, sweeping through conversations at high speed, picking up facts and spitting them back faster and with more force than Grantaire could follow sometimes. Apparently she was coming over though. Alright.

Grantaire slumped onto the futon. God, she really wanted a drink. But no. She had told Enjolras she wasn’t drunk, and if she drank now it would look like she was lying. She hadn’t been lying. 

She settled for a cigarette instead, taking a long drag and trying to clear her head.

She was seriously questioning her instinct to call Enjolras first thing. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Enjolras to be sympathetic. The thing was though, Enjolras was passionate, but she had a talent for rhetoric, not for the personal. 

Yes, Enjolras would come with fire in her eyes, talking about broad concepts, talking about _misogyny_ and _rape culture_ and _victim blaming_ and a bunch of other things Grantaire didn’t want to hear about, not now, not when she had a man’s blood drying on her knuckles and his handprint aching onto her arm.

She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about what could have happened to her. She didn’t want to think about anything. 

“Fuck,” Grantaire mumbled, the word billowing out with the smoke. She didn’t know why she said it. It was just too quiet. 

She didn’t know how long she sat there after that. It didn’t feel like very long at all, but maybe that was because at some point she let her eyes go unfocused as she stared into space, not thinking, not feeling. She was broken out of the trance she hadn’t realized she slipped into by the sharp noise of a knock. 

Well, a series of knocks.

Enjolras might have been trying to break down her door. 

“Hold on, fuck, I’m coming!” Grantaire shouted, stubbing out cigarette, a little over half burned, into the ashtray on her bedside table, before standing on shaky legs.

“That was fucking quick Enjolras,” Grantaire said as she went to the door, opening it as she continued talking. “I didn’t even have time to finish my cigareeeh...”

The would _cigarette_ died pathetically in her mouth, and it wasn’t even because Enjolras was standing there with her hands shoved in her tight jeans and her mouth screwed up in discontent, looking angry and beautiful. Grantaire wasn’t twelve anymore, she had long gotten past having words knocked out of her by a pretty girl. No, it was more who was standing next to Enjolras.

“Combeferre?” Grantaire squeaked. “What- Why is Combeferre here? Why are you here?” 

Combeferre was certainly standing there, and what was worse, she looked exhausted, long chestnut brown hair tied into a messy bun, glasses slightly askew, wearing what had to be pajama pants. 

“Oh no,” breathed out Grantaire, eyes darting between Enjolras and Combeferre. “Did you wake her up? Did she wake you up? Combeferre I didn’t ask her to wake you up I just-” 

“Are you going to let us in or not?” snapped Enjolras suddenly, bouncing on her heels in a display of nervous energy that seemed out of place in her. 

Grantaire shrugged and stepped to the side, letting Enjolras rush in. Combeferre paused after her, leaning into Grantaire, speaking in a slight hush. “She just wanted me to drive, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure-” 

“It’s fine; anything for a friend.” Combeferre smiled at Grantaire, and Grantaire swallowed a lump in her throat. Was Combeferre her friend now? It wasn’t that she wouldn’t want Combeferre’s friendship. She liked Combeferre, respected her. She was calm and nice and smart, but she was Enjolras’ roommate and best friend and so she had just always kind of assumed she didn’t want to deal with Grantaire’s shit. Why would she?

But Combeferre just patted her shoulder and followed Enjolras inside. 

As soon as Grantaire closed the door, Enjolras was bearing down on Grantaire, in a flurry of golden hair and flashing eyes. 

“Are you alright Grantaire?” she said seriously, and Grantaire’s heart fluttered a little at the concern, and maybe she hadn’t quite outgrown having the words knocked out of her by girls, because she sort of forgot she was supposed to be answering a question, and that gave Enjolras enough time to sweep over her and- “ _Is that blood?_ ”

Grantaire jumped back, bringing her hand up to her chest defensively. “It’s not mine!”

“Are you sure you’re not hurt? Did you see the man who did this? What did he look like?” Enjolras took a step toward her. Grantaire took a step back.

“Um. I don’t know. White, tall, brown hair maybe, I don’t know! It was dark.” Another step forward. Another back.

“Did you really run barefoot? Are your feet hurt? ” A step forward, a step back. Grantaire was very close to the wall and was beginning to feel a touch claustrophobic. “Does Combeferre need to look at your feet? Combeferre-”

“Combeferre isn’t looking at my feet!” yelped Grantaire, stumbling backwards and finally hitting the wall. “No one’s looking at my feet! I’m _fine_!”

“She’s right Enjolras,” interrupted Combeferre, putting her hands on her friends shoulders and pulling her back, for which Grantaire was incredibly grateful. “Enjolras, we talked about the intensity. You’re freaking out Grantaire.”

(Grantaire would protest but it was kind of true.)

Enjolras looked around frantically, making a face that was almost a pout, like she was scandalized that her particular brand of comfort was ineffective. Combeferre patted her shoulders. “Come on Enjolras. Why don’t you get Grantaire a glass of water?”

Enjolras hesitated, then began shuffling over to Grantaire’s kitchenette and opening cabinets, looking for her glasses.

“Are you hurt though?” asked Combeferre gently, hushing her voice again, even though Grantaire doubted it would do much good, what with how small her flat was. 

“I’m fine,” whispered Grantaire back, because she didn’t know what else to say. 

Combeferre leaned in a bit, dropping her voice even more. “Enjolras is a little spooked, but she does mean well. She’s not always the best at expressing her concern.” Grantaire had to resist the urge to snort. That wording almost made it seem like she cared about Grantaire. (Except she probably did, the way she cared about everyone, about any girl who could be grabbed on the street.)

Combeferre leaned back, and began talking at a normal voice as Enjolras came back over, offering the glass of water to Grantaire silently, face still screwed up into the almost-pout. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

That was the million dollar question wasn’t it. 

“I already told Enjolras what happened,” murmured Grantaire, taking the glass and moving past both of them brusquely, throwing herself onto the futon couch before taking a long drink of water. She felt Combeferre’s and Enjolras’ eyes on her, but opted to ignore them. 

“You barely told me anything.”

“There’s nothing to tell! He grabbed me and I got away! I’m fine, I’m absolutely fucking dandy, other than the fact that it’s been fucking ages since my last fucking meal! Shit!” Grantaire slammed the cup down on the table beside her, squeezing her eyes shut, her head swimming again. She didn’t want to talk about, didn’t want to think about it, didn’t-

“How are you feeling Grantaire?” It was Combeferre now, her voice soft,. Probably her doctor voice. Combeferre would be a good doctor one day.

“Hungry. Fucking starving. I just wanted food. That’s the only reason I called. I-I didn’t want to bother anyone-” 

“You’re not a bother!” It was Enjolras, and when she opened her eyes she was that the woman was looking at Grantaire with an undiluted intensity that Grantaire normally associated with disdain, but it wasn’t disdain. Grantaire didn’t really know how to respond with that. She held the gaze for a second more before she swallowed and looked away, continuing. 

“I... just want food. I’m really hungry.”

Combeferre nodded, then waved a hand toward Enjolras. “Enjolras, a word?”

Grantaire did not listen in to their whispering. If they wanted to whisper about her right in front of her, well they could go ahead. She was too tired to get offended. 

“Grantaire,” Combeferre said, turning away from Enjolras, who seemed to be pouting again. What had they said? “I’m going to go get you food. Enjolras is going to wait here with you.” Oh okay, that explained Enjolras’ face.

“I don’t need to be watched-” Grantaire started, but Combeferre was already heading for the door. “You really should clean up your feet though Grantaire. Probably your hands too. I’ll be back soon.” And then she was out the door. And Grantaire was alone with Enjolras. 

That had literally never happened before, unless you counted the time she had dropped off her coffee, and Grantaire did not, since she had barely even been awake at the time. 

Grantaire cleared her throat nervously, not looking at Enjolras, who was still standing in the middle of her flat aimlessly. It was the most out of place Grantaire had ever seen Enjolras. Of _course_ Enjolras was out of place around her. “Well, I should probably follow the doctor’s orders.” 

“Yeah.” Enjolras was staring at her, she could feel it, but she chose to ignore it as she stood up and stumbled quickly to her bathroom, locking the door behind her and letting out a heavy breath. 

Jesus Christ. Maybe it was because she hadn’t eaten in so long, but Grantaire couldn’t even really process what was happening anymore. Her painting seemed to have been days ago, but she had been working on it, what, an hour ago? Two? And now...

Grantaire sat on the edge of her tub and didn’t think about it. Her feet were dirty and seemed scraped up, but there weren’t any deeper cuts, so she counted herself lucky. She washed them in the tub and found the small first aid kit she kept, dabbing on antiseptic and hissing. She washed her hands too, scrubbing off dried paint and blood, watching it swirl down the drain somberly. She left her hands in the stream of water until it got to hot for her to stand and her skin turned bright pink, almost red. 

When she finally left the bathroom, Enjolras had moved to the corner of her room, where she had set up her make-shift studio, with tarps on the floor and and easel for her canvases. Enjolras was looking at her painting, her self-portrait, hands clasped behind her back respectfully. Shit.

Enjolras was just standing there, looking at the piece, with chiaroscuro and sickly colors, her naked back the figure, Grantaire’s spine twisting across the canvas, exaggerated and abstracted. Enjolras had never seen her work before, and Grantaire would never have chosen this one to be what she saw first. It was like a joke, beautiful, golden, Enjolras standing before her stupid muddy painting. 

Nervously she cleared her throat behind Enjolras. “You like it?” she asked, trying to seem casual.

Enjolras didn’t look away from it. “It’s... dark.”

“Be vaguer Artemis, and you’ll be ready for a first year critique.” 

“I like it. It’s good. It’s just... melancholy.” 

Something twitched in Grantaire’s heart. “It’s... It’s unfinished. I was working on it. Before... Before.”

Enjolras nodded and turned toward Grantaire, seeming to be about to say something when she stopped suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “Your arm.”

“Huh?”

“You have a bruise.”

“Oh.” And she did; the man’s large handprint was already purpling onto her arm. “Well. I bruise easy. Always have.”

“Shit, Grantaire...” hissed Enjolras, looking at her with narrowed eyes. 

“Since when do you curse?”

“Gran _taire-_ ”

“Look it’s fine. Really.”

“How is this fine? How is any of this-”

“I’ve had worse! It’s fine. Just... drop it.”

She threw herself back onto the couch, grabbing her cigarette and relighting it, once again avoiding Enjolras’s gaze. What did she want her to do? Break down and cry on her shoulder? Tell her how scared she had been or how it felt when she could feel his nose break under her fist? Explain that this wasn’t the first time she had a man’s hands leave bruises on her? 

Well she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t tell Enjolras anything, wouldn’t share her stupid feelings or cry. No one could make her, not even Enjolras of the silver tongue herself. 

There was a long silence, which Enjolras finally broke.

“Combeferre said I might have been being... unhelpful. That wasn’t my intention.”

Grantaire laughed out loud, and it felt like the first time she had in ages. “Why Artemis, is that an apology?”

“That’s a stupid nickname. I’m hardly a huntress.”

“What, cause you’re a vegetarian? You’re as intense Artemis. Would you prefer Athena? I’m afraid Aphrodite wouldn’t fit at all, no offense, that’s not a comment on your-”

“ _Grantaire._ ”

Grantaire stopped and looked up at Enjolras, only hesitating a little before meeting her eyes. If Grantaire didn’t know better she would think she looked nervous.

“I was...” Enjolras licked her lips, and she never tripped on her words like this. “I was _worried_ about you. When you called.” 

And her sincerity is so palpable, Grantaire is completely sincere when she whispers “Why?”

Enjolras grit her teeth and balled her fists. Ah, of course, even now Grantaire could still manage to offend her. “ _Why_ Wh- Because you’re my friend Grantaire! Why wouldn’t I be worried?”

Grantaire couldn’t look at Enjolras anymore. _I wasn’t aware we were friends_ is what she wanted to say. Instead she said “Right. Of course.” 

The silence that fell over them wasn’t comfortable, but Grantaire was willing to ignore that fact.

Combeferre didn’t take long, and showed up soon with a cheeseburger, which Grantaire tore into immediately, before feeling embarrassed at her hunger.

“You don’t need to watch me eat,” she muttered, toying with the burger wrapper. “I’m not a child. I’m alright. I just had a scare.”

Both Combeferre and Enjolras looked like they wanted to say something, but neither did. Instead Combeferre patted her on the shoulder and said she would call her to check on her tomorrow. Grantaire insisted it wasn’t necessary. She knew Combeferre would probably do it anyway. Combeferre was _nice._ Grantaire wasn’t sure how she ended up friends with all these nice people. 

Enjolras just stared at her, eyes penetrating, and nodded her goodbye, arms close to her sides.

Then they left her alone. 

Grantaire passed out on the still upright futon at some point, crumpled wrapper on her stomach, and had a nightmare about hard hands and hard brick that woke her up after about five hours of sleep. She lay there for a while, trying to forget the night before, the bruise on her arm, the way the man smelled, the embarrassing phone call, Enjolras’ eyes on her and on her painting, and-

She got up eventually, feeling worse than when she had a hangover, and looked in the mirror. 

She looked at the bruise for a long time.

* * *

Combeferre texted her later asking if if she was okay. Grantaire responded with a smiley. 

She texted Jehan a little later, telling her the basics of what happened, because she figured her best friend should hear it from her and not someone else. That ended up with Grantaire returning from her studio class to Jehan standing on her doorstep near tears. Grantaire assured her she was fine, but didn’t mention her shoes. She wasn’t sure if she had ever told Jehan about the shoes in the first place, so she didn’t figure she needed too.

The others, she supposed, would all know soon. She didn’t mind, but she knew to brace herself for the sympathy.

(Grantaire was not particularly good at accepting sympathy.)

It wasn’t until midnight the next night, when Grantaire was painting again, that she received a text from Enjolras.

**Enjolras**  
  _You should throw out that coffee cup. It’s been weeks._

Grantaire stared at the text for a long time, then stared at the cup. She had forgotten it was there. She had forgotten Enjolras would have seen it.

Finally she answered.

**You**    
 _Dont tell me what kind of squalor i can or cant live in Athena._

A few minutes later Enjolras texted back.

**Enjolras**  
 _That’s not a better nickname. Just pick up your trash._

And that was it. Interaction over.

(Except Grantaire did throw away the cup, her face burning the whole time.)


End file.
